


A Ficlet Collection

by Oilan



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Drabble Collection, Ficlet Collection, Gen, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2017-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-18 22:36:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 37
Words: 18,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5945889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oilan/pseuds/Oilan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of little Les Mis fics. </p><p>Characters, pairings, and ratings in the chapter titles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Apology (G; Marius/Courfeyrac)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally written for a ficlet exchange with [Boots](http://bootsssss.tumblr.com).

Just after midnight, Marius had found himself in the Latin Quarter, nearly at the Sorbonne. He had been wandering since nightfall, a bit aimlessly, caught up in some thought or another. Just as he had turned around to walk back the way he had come, he spotted Courfeyrac rounding a corner, a little hunched, coat dusty and hat askew, clearly on his way back to his rooms from somewhere.

Courfeyrac halted, gazing at him wearily, and after a long moment, sighed heavily and said, "Well then, Marius. You'll be done in if you stay out here alone- you'd better come up, I suppose." Marius did not think to protest, and slowly followed him up to the second landing, where Courfeyrac fumbled for his key. It was only then that Marius realized one of his arms was in a sling.

Once Courfeyrac had gotten the door open, he flung his keys onto the table and collapsed on the sofa, flinching as his arm was jolted but finally settling onto his back, eyes closed. It may have simply been the scant light from the streetlamp filtering in through the window, but he seemed rather pale and ill-looking. Marius hesitated near the end of the sofa, unsure of what to do next. He had never seen Courfeyrac in such a state of dishevelment, nor so sullen a temper.

"Don't just hover around there," Courfeyrac muttered without opening his eyes. "You can sit down, you know."

Marius looked around; every seat seemed to be taken up by stray papers and clothing, along with a few lurid novels flung here and there. He perched himself instead on the edge of the coffee table. Courfeyrac finally opened his eyes a crack and upon seeing where Marius had seated himself, appeared to give the faintest and shakiest of smiles. It was this little hint of warmth which, in the end, made Marius break his silence.

"What happened to you?"

Courfeyrac stared at him for a moment, all friendliness gone from his expression. "You are aware that a revolution took place last month, aren't you, Marius?"

"Yes-" Of course. Of course, if there was a revolution, Courfeyrac and his society of friends would have taken part. "I- I wasn't there, but of course I heard."

"Well, _we_ were there; we managed to both win and lose, _someone shot me in the arm_ , and I've had a fever for _weeks_. _That_ is what happened to me." Courfeyrac screwed up his face. "I still can't believe it."

An odd, leaden knot settled in Marius' stomach. "But surely it can't be as bad as that, can it? Charles X is no longer on the throne." Courfeyrac was still staring at Marius, brow knitted, but Marius continued doggedly. "It will be better than it was before."

Never before had Marius seen Courfeyrac angry- it was unsettling. His face, already wan from fatigue and pain, had turned even paler. He was almost shaking.

"We did not work for years and risk our lives to merely replace one king with another. It is still a monarchy, and a monarchy mean none of us are free." He looked as though he wanted to say much more, but tiredness had gotten the better of him. He almost seemed to deflate, defeated.

"Marius-" Courfeyrac scrubbed at his face with his hand. "Just- stop talking. Come here and go to sleep, for God's sake."

Chastened, not wanting to upset Courfeyrac further, Marius obeyed and nestled next to him on the sofa. There really wasn't enough room for both of them, but Marius was hesitant about suggesting one of them move to the bed in the other room.

Minutes crept by in silence. Courfeyrac had flung his uninjured arm over Marius, though he was still awake and indignant. Marius shifted uncomfortably, the knot in his stomach growing heavier.

"Courfeyrac, I-" Marius flushed. Their faces were very close together. Courfeyrac looked over at him, puzzled, a hair's breadth now between them. "I'm sorry. About your revolution- about everything."

Courfeyrac looked as though he was on the verge of smiling, but instead closed the gap between them and pressed his lips to Marius', soft and warm. Marius let him do as he wished, surprised but not at all displeased, and tried to respond as well as he could, though he was certain his own inexperience was more than obvious.

"There," Courfeyrac said as they pulled apart. Marius wondered if he was imagining the slight breathlessness in his voice. "No harm done- we are all made up from our tiff. Now, get some sleep. I'm certain you will need a lot of rest for another full day of wandering and reveries tomorrow."


	2. The World's Greatest Poem (T; Prouvaire, Bahorel)

"You understand, don't you- I've spoken of this often enough. Poetry is- it is a _craft_ and like any craft it must be handled with care and patience and with each part placed just so. Every word is capable of holding infinite meaning and when placed together, a masterwork takes form. One cannot simply fling words on a page and expect greatness to result. One must-"

"A craft must be crafted; I understand this very well," Bahorel said. "What on earth are you doing?"

"Writing," said Prouvaire. He was sitting cross-legged on the dusty floor of his cluttered room, gripping a quill as though his life depended on it. The yellowed scrap of paper on which he was furiously scribbling looked to be about a hundred years old, and was almost too tiny to be of any use. Prouvaire was bent so low over the short table in front of him his forehead nearly touched the surface; a lit stump of a candle was placed so near on his right that he was in great danger of lighting his hair on fire. Bahorel was left to ponder whether the sight would have been more or less amusing if he had taken to the opium pipe as enthusiastically as Prouvaire apparently had done before his arrival.

"And _what_ are you writing, dear Jehan?"

Prouvaire sat up so suddenly and so violently he knocked the table away from him. "A poem!" He was looking slightly over Bahorel's left shoulder, his gaze somehow both intent and out of focus. "No- no, I am not writing _a_ poem. I am writing _it_ \- _the_ poem. The- the World's Greatest Poem."

Bahorel burst into laughter. Under any other circumstances, Prouvaire would have become petulant immediately; now, he merely lowered his face to his work again.

"It's not that I don't have faith in you." Bahorel sat heavily on the floor next to his friend, swirling his glass of wine. "But I confess I am dying to know _why_ you think this is the _World's Greatest Poem_."

"You have never written a poem-- _besides_ the one about your old mistress." Prouvaire wrinkled his nose. "I never wish to read anything written by you again; I shall be haunted and horrified forevermore."

Here, Bahorel gave a crooked, filthy smile. "Haunted and horrified sounds as though it would be just your thing," he retorted. "Though I admit my mistress agreed with you."

"She did not fully appreciate your, euh, _effort_. This is why she is your _old_ mistress."

"Actually, she is my old mistress because she decided to throw me over and try to woo _you_ instead. Clearly, her taste cannot be accounted for."

Prouvaire frowned. "A lesser mortal would take offense at that. I am much too- too _elevated_ by my _art_ to be bothered with such a trifling-"

In an endeavor to halt Prouvaire's speech, Bahorel snatched the paper away from him and held it up to the scarce light. The only thing written on it was a completely illegible series of scrawls, blots, and scratches. Bahorel frowned at it, turned it upside down, then back over.

" _What_ is this again?"

"The World's Greatest Poem." Prouvaire beamed triumphantly. "It is about _love_ and _life_ and _death_ and utter, _utter_ passion and sorrow!" He flopped over onto his back in a fit of either artistic ecstasy or intoxication. "Nothing so profound has ever been written, nor _will_ ever be written again."

"Such a statement of pride! I'm almost proud of _you_ , in turn."

"Pride? It is _fact_." He stopped, and then stared at the ceiling, eyes widening in what seemed to be dawning horror. "But- but perhaps..." He clutched at his fraying collar. "In writing the World's Greatest Poem, have I not rendered the entire art moot? If word spreads of the existence this poem, what if- what if poets _across the world_ cease writing, giving up hope of ever creating something better?"

"Pride, indeed!" Bahorel laughed. "You've not only written the best poem, you have single-handedly destroyed your entire craft."

Prouvaire clutched his face in his hands and rolled on the floor a little. " _Cruel fate!_ "

Bahorel calmly watched him writhe in despair, drinking his wine. "There is only one thing to be done. This poem must be destroyed-" He looked again at the indecipherable mess of scribbles and blots. "-for _all_ of our sakes."

" _Wait!_ " Prouvaire bolted upright. " _Let me read it just once more!_ "

"No. It's best not to prolong your suffering." Before Prouvaire could grab the paper back from him, Bahorel lit it with the candle and watched it crumble into ash. Prouvaire let out a whimper and flopped over again.

"Don't despair," Bahorel said, hauling himself to his feet and finishing off the last of his wine. "The Great Poem is fleeting; it reflects our own existence. Now, get up! I've come here to take you on a night of libationary adventure and liberation, but we must hurry- the night is fleeting as well."


	3. Honor Before Reason (G; Enjolras, Combeferre)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [bobbiewickham](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bobbiewickham) and [amelancholycharm](http://amelancholycharm.tumblr.com), inspired by amelancholycharm's [discovery](http://amelancholycharm.tumblr.com/post/146778395708/so-the-other-day-i-was-talking-to-oilan-about-my) that my Enjolras and Combeferre lived on a street adjacent to the present-day Rue Bonaparte.

"No. _No_ , Enjolras, I refuse to do this. I would go through fire to die at your side, but no--this time, you ask too much of me."

Lightning flashed overhead, illuminating the steely look of disappointment that crossed Enjolras' face. It was pouring with rain and, though he was soaked to the bone, a chill that had nothing to do with the weather passed through Combeferre. He stood up straighter under Enjolras' large black umbrella, and met his friend's gaze with one that was just as severe.

"I will have no part in this. It's folly-- _madness_."

Enjolras' stern expression slipped into one of confusion. "It is merely a name."

They were standing at the junction of the Rue des Petits Augustins and the Rue du Colombier, facing the entrance of a tidy little pastry shop. Despite the storm-darkened sky and the rain pelting down, the display of pastries in the window was beautifully, _flawlessly_  lit. A meticulously arranged spread of every kind of confection imaginable seemed to beckon to them, enticing them to enter and feast to their hearts' desire. Macarons of every color and flavor were nestled beside plump profiteroles and éclairs drizzled with chocolate and filled with cream. Fluted, caramelized canelés, their sugary crusts glistening in the golden lamplight, sat in neat rows next to the display of flakey pain au chocolat and little fruit tartlets. A generous portion of mille-feuille, layered with custard and topped with the most perfectly swirled sheet of fondant Combeferre had ever seen sat near the front of the window, as though it had been placed there especially for him. There was even a little display of golden brown beignets stuffed with jam, which he knew to be Enjolras' favorite. Combeferre would have entered the shop immediately and bought them all for his friend had it not been for the sign above the door: _Patisserie Bonaparte._ He frowned at it.

"A _name_. A name which harkens to the imperial stain on the history of France." 

"The shopkeeper is no _Buonapartiste_. She simply did not change the shop name after her father passed."

Combeferre looked sharply from the display of pastries to Enjolras. "How could you possibly know that?"

In lieu of responding, Enjolras turned his gaze to the beignets and eyed them longingly.

The aforementioned shopkeeper, a plump, kindly-looking woman in a neat frock and apron, was looking at them in concern through the window. When Combeferre looked back at her, she gave a gentle smile and held up a steaming mug, an offer of a warm drink for two cold and bedraggled young men. It _was_ very tempting. Beside him, Enjolras' stomach rumbled pitifully.

"No," said Combeferre again, as he felt his resolve begin to waver. "I know it is the end of term and I promised to buy us some sweets to celebrate, but Paris must have hundreds of other patisseries. No. We will find another."

Enjolras cast a mournful gaze upon Combeferre. "It is raining, and we are so near our lodgings..."

Combeferre shook his head and grasped Enjolras' elbow to steer him away from the shop. "My friend, it is the _principle_ of the thing..."


	4. Mud (G; Feuilly, Enjolras)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt by tumblr user fixaidea.

"The polytechniciens have once again proven themselves to be useful allies. First, their show of force and conviction in July, and now our agreement regarding the gunpowder." Enjolras was speaking, arms crossed and back straight, while Feuilly set a kettle on the stove. "Their enthusiasm is unwavering. Admirable, considering the limitations their school sets upon them."

 Feuilly would have readily agreed, had he not been biting the inside of his cheek to keep himself from laughing. Serious by nature, he was not usually given to outbursts of humor, but he really could not help it. Though Enjolras spoke as eloquently and--the tiniest poetic streak in Feuilly had to admit--melodically as ever, his appearance clashed harshly with his words. His blue eyes were the only thing visible, his gaze confident and solemn; the rest of him was covered head-to-toe with mud.

If truth be told, Feuilly guessed he himself could not have looked much better. On their way back to Enjolras' flat to draft the notes from their meeting with the polytechniciens, the skies had opened and rain had poured down. In their haste to get under cover, they both had slipped while also attempting to prevent the other from falling, and had landed in a heap on the ground. While lying in the gutter, a passing omnibus added insult to injury and splashed mud and refuse all over them.

"Here," said Feuilly, pouring warm water into the wash basin and handing Enjolras a cloth. "The notes can wait for a moment." Enjolras blinked at him through the mud. "You-" The barest chuckle managed to escape him. "You look a sight."

It was difficult to tell, but Feuilly thought that perhaps Enjolras was smiling. At least, his gaze seemed warmer. "I suppose you're right. Practical as always, Citizen."


	5. Tension (G; Combeferre, Courfeyrac)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt by tumblr user ratheralark.

Bent over a Musain table late at night, Combeferre squinted down at his notes on the musculature of the face, eyes stinging. For hours, he had been pouring over months' worth of anatomical diagrams and transcriptions from his lectures; even his own handwriting was indecipherable to him now. He raised a hand to scrub at his face, and tensed when he felt someone grip his shoulders. 

"Oh!" said Courfeyrac from behind him. There was a smile in his voice. "That was supposed to have the opposite effect."

Combeferre twisted around to look at him, but flinched at a knot in his back. "What are you doing?"

"Helping, obviously." Courfeyrac gently turned him back around and set to work massaging the tension from his shoulders. "You've been hunched over that table for ages. What's so important that you would be this stressed over it, hmm?"

"The _internat_ examination." Though Combeferre was rarely nervous in the face of an exam, he did not like to think about this one. "It's in less than a week. "

"That only means that in a week it will be over and you will have your internship. At the most prestigious hospital, I'm sure." He paused to pat Combeferre on the top of the head, and laughed when Combeferre tried to bat his hand away. "It will be _fine_. And would you hold still, for God's sake? You needn't be so _prickly_."

Combeferre wanted to protest--between political work and classes, every last moment he could get to study was vital--but somehow Courfeyrac had located the knot in his back and was kneading it away. Almost involuntarily, Combeferre relaxed. He supposed a five minute break would do no harm. He closed his eyes, and completely missed seeing Courfeyrac's self-satisfied smile. 


	6. Cravat (G; Combeferre, Enjolras)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt from tumblr user smithensy.

After viewing himself in the little mirror next to the washstand, Combeferre had to concede that perhaps Courfeyrac's continual laments had been right: Perhaps his nicest coat and trousers were not all that nice after all. Still, it was too late now. His _internat_ examination was in less than half an hour, and his old clothes would have to do.

Nervously, he tugged at his lapel, tried to smooth a stubborn wrinkle from the skirt of his coat, then turned to Enjolras, who was perched at the edge of the bed. He stretched his arms out from his sides and looked at his friend, almost pleadingly. "Well?"

Enjolras, who had turned up at his door unexpectedly that morning for seemingly no other reason than to sit in silence as Combeferre got ready for the day, rose and strode over to him. He tilted his head and surveyed Combeferre solemnly, then reached out to adjust the knot of his cravat. "There."

Combeferre looked back into the mirror. If anything, Enjolras had made the cravat even more lopsided. He might have been irked at this, but when he caught sight of Enjolras' reflection, smiling at him over his shoulder, Combeferre found himself rather comforted instead.


	7. Novel (G; Feuilly, Combeferre)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From a prompt by tumblr user pilferingapples.

"What- what is _that_."

Feuilly has not meant his words to come out so disapprovingly, but his surprise had gotten the better of him. As the evening sky threatened rain, he had hurried through the streets to return a borrowed stack of books, especially eager to discuss this batch. The first thing he had seen upon entering Combeferre's flat, however, was Combeferre himself, ensconced in a nest of blankets on his sofa, candle nearly burnt out, with his nose in a long--and most likely lurid--Gothic horror anthology.

Utterly engrossed, Combeferre failed to look up, and then started when Feuilly cleared his throat. 

"Oh!" He blinked at Feuilly, with that unfocused look that meant he had been reading for hours. "I didn't see you there. Do come in. You can leave those books on my desk; I'll put them away later."

"You don't normally read such things," said Feuilly, nodding at the volume in Combeferre's hands as he set the stack of books on the already cluttered desk. "Some of our friends do, perhaps. But I've never seen you read Gothic novels."

"I _know_." Combeferre turned the book over to look at the cover sheepishly. "Courfeyrac left it here, and I was curious. It's not really-"

There was a loud _bang_ from above--perhaps an upstairs neighbor dropping something--and Combeferre jumped. 

Feuilly eyed him. "Is it... frightening?"

" _No_."

Feuilly raised his eyebrows. Outside, rain began to fall in earnest, pattering against the window, and thunder rumbled from above. Combeferre seemed to flinch a bit at the noise.

"You can stay," he said quickly. There was the smallest note of pleading in his voice. "You know--on account of the rain."

Feuilly stifled a smile as he sat next to Combeferre on the sofa. "Read that book aloud, won't you?"

  

* * *

 

An hour and several stories later, Feuilly realized he had completely wrapped himself in one of Combeferre's spare blankets, and they both had inched nearer to each other on the sofa. 

"The candle's nearly out," said Combeferre suddenly. "Shall I... Shall I get another?"

He looked towards his desk, and to the drawer in which he kept his spare candles. As foolish as he knew the notion was, it seemed to Feuilly that the desk lay in a particularly dark and foreboding patch of the room.

"No! Euh." Feuilly shook his head. "It's getting rather late, and I have work early tomorrow morning."

"Oh. Of course." Combeferre looked dismayed. 

There was a strained silence, during which Feuilly glanced anxiously out of the window. 

"It's- it's still raining," he said quietly. It was, in fact, merely drizzling lightly, but he found himself thinking not of walking through the damp, but of the long, dark walk back to his lodgings, and how utterly alone he would be once he got there. Alone, in a dark, dark room. 

"It is!" said Combeferre, though he did not bother to look out the window to confirm it. "It is still raining, so you shall stay here for the night. Perhaps we could both sleep here on the sofa, and-" 

There was another loud _thunk_ from the noisy upstairs neighbor, and this time both of them started. 


	8. A Tumble (G; Courfeyrac, Feuilly)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt from tumblr user thecoffeetragedy.

"You took quite a fall. You're absolutely certain you're all right?"

Bruised and battered, every inch of him smarting as he lay on his stomach in bed, Courfeyrac turned to look up at Feuilly. Or at least, he tried. It hurt too much to turn his head more than a few degrees toward where Feuilly sat. Still, he managed to look up at Feuilly's left knee, and that was _something_ at least. "Yes, of course. Why would you think otherwise?"

"Well... a few reasons."

Courfeyrac tried to shrug, but flinched at the movement. Feuilly lay a gentle hand on his shoulder.

Really, though--it could not have been helped. There had been a raid, and an eager young gendarme had chased them through the streets like a man possessed. They both were carrying incriminating pamphlets, but if caught, a night in jail and a slap on the wrist for Courfeyrac could very well have meant a loss of work and livelihood for Feuilly. Knowing this, Courfeyrac had veered off and slowed down, presenting himself as an easier target, and the gendarme had followed. Miraculously, he had still managed to evade his pursuer but as he ran, he had looked over his shoulder to check that he was no longer being followed. In what he realized now was a very grave error, he had failed to notice the patch of slippery paving stones and the old abandoned cart in front of him. He had skidded on the stones and- Well. It was no matter. They had both gotten away. Feuilly had even managed to find Courfeyrac lying on the ground and had helped him back to his rooms.

"You didn't need to do that," said Feuilly, very quietly.

"My dear fellow, I have no idea what you are talking about."

Feuilly let out a quiet huff, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. "Well, anyway." He massaged Courfeyrac's shoulder lightly, kneading the pain away with the heel of his hand. "Thank you."


	9. Storybook (G; Cosette)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt from tumblr user lovethefutureisthine.

"I found something the other day, Papa, as I was going through a few of my old things." Cosette smiled down at the book in her lap: A little illustrated collection of children's stories. "Do you remember it? You bought it when I was very, very small and I just adored it. You'd read it to me every night before bed, no matter how many times I asked." She laughed and flipped through it, suddenly remembering each story vividly, though she had not so much as thought of the book in years. "You must have been thoroughly tired of it."

The gravestone in front of her, as always, remained silent. Cosette always felt slightly foolish speaking to her father in this way, as though he could hear her. She did so anyway; Marius sometimes did the same with his own father, and insisted it helped. She wasn't so certain about this. Marius had never really known his father; his loss was different from hers. 

Tears welled in her eyes, but Cosette blinked them back and stood, reaching out to touch the top of the gravestone briefly. Had it really been a year that he had been gone? 

"Goodbye, Papa. I'll be back to visit soon." 

Hugging the old book to her chest, Cosette turned and walked back toward Marius, who stood some distance away, patiently waiting for her. 


	10. Waltz (G; Marius, Courfeyrac)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For an anonymous tumblr prompt.

"Isn't- Isn't the waltz considered _indecent?_ "

Courfeyrac dropped his hand from Marius' shoulder and threw his head back to laugh. " _No!_  It hasn't been for  _years!_ Or, well," he amended. "Perhaps it is in England, but we are not English, Marius. God forbid it."

Marius reddened. "Well, how should I know?"

"I haven't a clue why you _wouldn't_ know. Now, here-" Courfeyrac placed Marius' hand on his waist and gripped the other in his own. "You lead this time, and mind you don't step on my feet." Despite these instructions, Courfeyrac was obliged to pull at his friend's shoulder to persuade him to move again. "The accent is on the first beat, remember? _One_ -two-three, _one_ -two-three- See! It isn't so difficult."

"I don't know why you insist that I learn this," Marius said, brow knitted in concentration as they moved around Courfeyrac's sitting room.

"It is important to me that I have no more friends who refuse to dance," said Courfeyrac, neatly stepping out of the way of Marius' foot. "I have too many as it is. And besides, I fully intend to take you to the ball at Sceaux. It will be marvelous fun--just the thing to put a smile on your face."


	11. Hat (G; Marius, Courfeyrac)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For prompt by tumblr user bootsssss.

"Marius!" Courfeyrac flung open the door to his flat. "Maaaarius! Ma-ri-us! Mar-"

Marius was already lying awake atop the spare mattress on the floor, but still started when Courfeyrac tripped over his feet and landed next to him.  

"Oof.  _Hello_ , Marius!" 

Marius stared at him. "You are very drunk."

"You really should have come out tonight," said Courfeyrac, ignoring this statement. "You really, really- I know you don't like dancing or music or people, but you _really_ should have come. Jehan- Jehan brought a taxidermied guinea fowl along and Grantaire threw it into the river. It was _incredible_."

"What?" 

This query remained unanswered. Courfeyrac turned his head and nuzzled his face into the pillow. "Mmmrph."

Marius blinked at him, and then amended: "You are _extremely_ drunk. And your hat is dented." He reached up to pluck the top hat from Courfeyrac's head, pressed the dent out of its side, and then set it back in place, albeit a little crookedly. 

Courfeyrac peered at him from between the brim of the hat and the pillow. He seemed tearful. "That was- that was so _nice_ of you." Before Marius could react, Courfeyrac rolled sideways and flung an arm around him. "That was so very, very-"

Silence. Marius prodded at his friend, but he seemed to have suddenly dropped off to sleep. Trapped beneath his arm, Marius found he could do nothing more than nestle down into the blankets a bit more, and at least attempt to sleep as well.


	12. Heart (G; Jean Prouvaire, Enjolras)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt by tumblr user kcrabb88.

Jean Prouvaire's heart pounded in his chest. It had started racing the previous evening, when he had watched crowds of workers run through the street outside his window, and had continued throughout the next day: When Enjolras had called them to the rising barricade, during his lonely watch that night, throughout their first wave of fighting this morning, and even now, during this lull in activity. He could still hear gunfire in the distance, but their street was silent for now.

They had joined a group of Feuilly's contacts--bricklayers for the most part--on their barricade. The pause in action meant that attention could be shifted to the wounded, who had all been moved to an old abandoned shop a short distance away. Prouvaire was not wounded, or at least not seriously enough to justify calling a medical student away from those in greater need. Instead Enjolras, to Prouvaire's slight surprise, had stepped in to tend to his scraped hand.

Enjolras was frowning, wrapping Prouvaire's arm in bandages with as much serious efficiency as ever. For his part, Prouvaire sat on a table and watched the progress carefully, trying his best to keep still and calm through slow, deliberate breaths.

"There are whispers regarding the capture of the Hôtel de Ville," said Enjolras abruptly. He tilted his head toward the door, as though listening for something.

Straining his ears too, Prouvaire thought he could hear the shouts and footsteps of an approaching crowd. His heart, if possible, sped its pace. "Taken by us?"

"No. We are better positioned to keep out opposing forces. If we, along with our fellows elsewhere, do well, it will be done in another day or two."

"And- and our revolution won?" The crowd was growing closer, and the people around them were leaving the shop, taking up weapons once more.

"And our revolution won." Enjolras inspected Prouvaire's hand one final time before looking him in the face. "Are you ready?"

One could not hear Enjolras speak and then doubt him. Prouvaire, suddenly, found himself quite calm. "Yes. I'm ready."


	13. Novel II (G; Enjolras, Combeferre)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For an anonymous tumblr prompt.

In winter, with the snowfall and the citizens of Paris taking refuge indoors, the Rue des Marais was especially quiet. Enjolras could easily work in this silence for hours upon hours; often the only thing heard in his one-room flat was the scratching of pen on paper. On this evening, however, another sound punctuated the stillness in intervals.

It took a great deal of time for Enjolras to notice it, and even longer for him to realize what it was. He paused in his writing, and looked across the desk to where Combeferre sat on the other side. His forehead was in his hand, his face cast down; he was weeping. Enjolras drew in a sharp breath and reached out a hand toward his friend. How long had Combeferre been like this, without him noticing?

"Combeferre- what is it?"

"Oh, I-" Combeferre hastily wiped his face, cheeks pink. "It's- It's nothing."

"It isn't. Please, tell me what happened."

"No, it really is nothing. I just-" Combeferre trailed off at Enjolras' unconvinced expression. He sighed and, still very red, lifted something that he had apparently been reading, hidden on his lap under the table. It was a novel: _Notre-Dame de Paris_. From the position Combeferre was holding it open, it seemed he was near the end.

Enjolras drew his hand back, wrinkling his nose at the book. "Combeferre. _No._ "

"I know. I know how you feel about Hugo and his writing, and I _agree_. I am often extremely annoyed with his characters, and _uncomfortable_ with his treatment of Esmeralda, and sometimes I am very suspicious that he has written this novel just to lecture the reader about his own opinions. And I usually remain unaffected by the kind of stories Courfeyrac and Bahorel and Jehan like, but..." He sniffled. 

"But?"

Combeferre looked at him pitifully. "It's just very sad."

There was a short silence, and Enjolras sighed. "Shall I get you a handkerchief?"

"Yes. Thank you."


	14. Bed (G; Joly, Enjolras)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a tumblr prompt by pilferingapples.

"Enjolras?" Joly prodded his friend's shoulder. Enjolras, dead asleep next to him in bed, did not react. He tried again, whispering a bit louder, prodding a bit more forcefully: "Enjolras. _Enjolras!"_

"Hmm?" Enjolras' eyes cracked open, but only for a moment. 

"Good, you're awake," said Joly, propping himself up on an elbow. "I know this is rather rude, taking advantage of your hospitality and then asking you to accommodate me further. And I really _am_ grateful for you letting me stay here. Bossuet has been courting that seamstress for weeks, and he likes her ever so much--it seemed only fair to let him have the flat for the night. And I only came here because I knew you wouldn't have company--not that you couldn't _get_  company if you wanted it; that is not what I'm saying. But anyway, this- this is terribly awkward. A terribly awkward request."

"Hmm?" said Enjolras again. Joly was not certain he had been listening at all. 

"It's only- I can't sleep." Joly waited, and when Enjolras did not respond, he continued: "I was wondering if you would be open to trying something. I usually align my bed to the poles, you see. It helps with all manner of ailments--the flow of blood, for one. I was thinking, maybe, that your bed is misaligned, and this is the reason I can't fall asleep. I hope it's not any trouble, but it would only take a moment to turn your bed the proper direction..."

Joly trailed off and watched Enjolras anxiously. Enjolras pressed his face into his pillow for a moment, sighed, and then rolled out of bed, his eyes still shut. 

"Oh, thank you!"

Joly got to his feet too and helped Enjolras rotate the bed a few degrees. That done, Enjolras dropped heavily back onto the bed, fast asleep again, and Joly followed suit, nestling happily under the blankets. 

Something still wasn't right, however. After several minutes of tossing and turning, Joly rolled over to prod at Enjolras' shoulder again. "Enjolras? My friend, I'm terribly sorry, but I don't suppose you have a mirror? I just realized--most unfortunate--I haven't checked my tongue in hours."


	15. Headache (G; Feuilly, Courfeyrac)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt by tumblr user artdalek.

"That really is beautiful, you know."

Feuilly looked over his shoulder at Courfeyrac, who had come up behind him to take a look at his work. The fanmaking workshop had been so busy lately, and while Feuilly could not complain of a guaranteed income, it had meant that he had been required to take some of his work home with him. Presently, he was finishing up a particularly complex design of tiny leaves and flowers, his hand cramped and head pounding from the hours of intricate detail work.

"Hm. Thank you." He set down his brush to rub his temples for a moment.

"Headache?" Courfeyrac asked.

"Oh, euh. Yes, but-"

Courfeyrac stepped up to him. For a moment, Feuilly didn't know what he was doing, but the next, he found himself entirely relaxed in his chair as Courfeyrac threaded his fingers in Feuilly's hair and gently massaged his scalp. 

"My sister Alphonsine always gets these terrible headaches," Courfeyrac explained, as Feuilly slumped in his seat. "As a child she'd have to go and hide from the light and noise, poor thing. Granted, I think the rest of us _caused_ the headaches more often than not, but... Well. Is it better at all?"

" _Yes_." Feuilly let out a deep sigh and closed his eyes. "Infinitely better."


	16. Frost (G; Enjolras, Combeferre, Courfeyrac)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt by tumblr user revolutionarycarey.

There was frost on the ground of Le Puy-en-Velay, but nothing more. Combeferre was grateful. The lack of snow meant the roads were not impassable, and their journey had been an easy one. He was grateful, too, that he and Courfeyrac had been able to accompany Enjolras at all on such short notice. His chest grew heavy at the thought of the alternative: Enjolras, utterly alone, in a big empty house. 

The death of Enjolras' grandaunt had been sudden, according to the letter Enjolras had received from her manservant. She had been healthy and herself one day, but had not woken up the next morning. Combeferre had not been well acquainted with her, but he had liked her all the same. A sharp, intelligent woman, brusquely affectionate, she held in common with her grandnephew an aloof, cold exterior which hid the warmth at her core. She had been Enjolras' only family since he was twelve, and now he was alone. 

The unexpected disadvantage of this was that the moment they had arrived at Enjolras' childhood home, Enjolras had been waylaid by business matters. There was the estate to be settled, the funeral, which they had missed due to the long journey, to be paid for. Courfeyrac had been incensed that Enjolras could not just be left alone, but Combeferre supposed that there was nothing to be done about it. The business was all finished soon enough. 

Throughout all of this, Enjolras had been much his usual self. Perhaps a bit more somber, and a bit more quiet, but he had done all that was required of him without wavering. Now, however, they at last had time to visit the cemetery, and as they stood in front of the gravestone, on the freshly dug earth, Enjolras bowed his head. Combeferre raised his eyes from the ground to look at his friend. There were tears streaming down his face, his breath coming in quiet, uneven gasps. With a heavy heart, Combeferre grasped his hand. On Enjolras' other side, Courfeyrac slipped an arm around his shoulders and held him tightly. Now that Enjolras could, at last, grieve in peace, neither said a word. 


	17. Fortress (T; Bahorel, Jean Prouvaire)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt by tumblr user aflamethatneverdies.

Bahorel woke on Jean Prouvaire's dusty old rug, sneezed, and then immediately regretted it; his head was throbbing. Nauseated, he rolled over and, against his better judgment, cracked open an eye. Prouvaire's dark sitting room swam into focus. Though the room was usually crowded and cluttered with any strange items Prouvaire fancied, it was significantly more chaotic now. Dirty glasses, some half-filled with wine and some with absinthe, were scattered everywhere. There was an overturned armchair to his left, the seat cushion torn and the stuffing spread over the floor among torn pages of half-finished writing. The broken remnants of a large vase lay between him and an upside-down table, illuminated by a single strip of light from between the thick, wine-colored curtains.

Perhaps the strangest thing--and that was saying something, Bahorel thought dully, as he contemplated a stuffed vulture nearby, which was without a head but was wearing several women's undergarments--was the structure in the center of the room, where Prouvaire's divan usually stood. Though it filled nearly half of the flat, it appeared to be made entirely of blankets and sofa cushions. As a child, Bahorel had played in little tents made of blankets and pillows with his siblings, but this structure was not that; this was a _fortress_. It even had two taxidermied ravens acting as sentries, standing silent and moldy on either side of the entrance.

Though he knew this was bound to be another of Prouvaire's eccentricities, curiosity got the better of him. After a valiant effort to stand, and an even more valiant effort to crawl, Bahorel glowered as he dragged himself over, flinging aside one of the ravens and wriggling inside. He immediately tread on a very solid mass of spindly limbs and garishly-patterned fabric, which flailed in surprise for a moment before lying still, groaning piteously.

"Jehan?" said Bahorel, and the loudness of his voice made Prouvaire cover his head with his hands and whimper. "What the hell isthis?"

"I'm hiding," Prouvaire answered. He reached out to draw a cushion to his chest and squeezed it. "It is so- it is so very _bright_ out there. My head hurts and it is much too bright and so I've built this in which to hide. It is a sanctuary. From- from the _brightness_." Following this eloquence, he buried his face in the cushion.

Bahorel did not question how Prouvaire had built the sanctuary in his condition--sometimes a drunken man, even a drunken Prouvaire, is capable of astounding feats. Instead he said, ignoring Prouvaire's shushing noises as he spoke, "I should congratulate you on throwing yet another excellent party. You might even have outdone yourself, if that is possible."

"Théo _broke_ my vase," said Prouvaire. He lifted his head to glare at Bahorel with bloodshot eyes. "He got so excited to see Gérard that he _dropped_ it and it _broke_."

"All excellent parties have casualties," Bahorel replied, flopping down next to Prouvaire in the nest of cushions. His head throbbed so sharply at the movement that it felt like it was being crushed, and he could not help but let out a pained groan as well. "Though I feel I must add," he said, grimacing and pulling a nearby pillow over his face, "It might be possible that _we_ are among the casualties this time."


	18. Nightshirt (T; Combeferre, Enjolras)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For an anonymous tumblr prompt.

March brought rain showers to Paris--a frequent inconvenience, though they were at least fleeting. On one occasion, they offered Combeferre a brief distraction from his own thoughts as he hurried home in the early hours of the morning after a long day and night at the hospital. It is difficult to dwell on one's other troubles while caught in the rain.

Four of Combeferre's patients had succumbed to cholera that day, only to be replaced by four more. Necker was overwhelmed, yet even after such a frantic, miserable day, he had more business to attend to. He was on his way to Enjolras' flat; his friend had wanted to discuss the most recent news from their allies of the Cougourde, with whom he had planned to meet a few hours ago.

Enjolras had not yet returned when Combeferre arrived at the flat. Soaked head to toe, he took the liberty of rummaging through Enjolras' wardrobe and changing into a nightshirt, draping his wet clothes over the desk chair. 

Now that he was dry and out of the rain, the heaviness of the day weighed on Combeferre again, and he sank down onto the edge of the bed. So many patients dead--not only his own, but the patients of every intern and doctor in the hospital--and there was nothing anyone could do. No treatment seemed to work. Even the more senior doctors were at a loss, and the number of cases of cholera seemed to be increasing every day. Where would they all be in a week, or a month? Combeferre covered his face with his hands, trying to push the thought from his mind, and then started when the door to the flat swung open.

Enjolras closed the door behind himself, and raised his eyebrows when he spotted Combeferre. "My nightshirt?" 

"Yes. You don't mind, do you?"

"No." He smiled. "Though perhaps it's a bit too long for you."

Combeferre tried to smile back, but he could not quite manage it. Enjolras' own smile faltered, and instead of hanging up his damp hat and coat, he crossed to the bed and sat beside Combeferre. There was a long moment of silence before he spoke again. "Is there something the matter?"

Another silence. Combeferre had to take a few deep, shaky breaths before he answered, "Just- just a bad day."

"I see." Enjolras regarded him with a steady gaze. "Perhaps the discussion regarding the Cougourde can wait until morning." He reached out to press Combeferre's hand. The lump in Combeferre's throat eased somewhat, and he was finally able to smile when Enjolras added, "You may stay the night, of course; I would like it if you did. You are already dressed for it, after all."


	19. Important (G; Jean Prouvaire, Grantaire)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt by tumblr user tumtummeke.

Late in the evening--or perhaps early in the morning, Prouvaire did not know--Grantaire's rooms had an almost otherworldly feel about them. So very dark and quiet, the silence was at odds with the excitement still coursing through him. Bahorel snored softly on the bare mattress in the corner, Grantaire lay awake on the floor, and Prouvaire was on his back some distance away, staring up at the ceiling, heart still racing despite every inch of his body being bruised and exhausted. His injuries meant very little to him. What was a black eye, in exchange for all they had achieved? What they had done that day was a grand success--a triumph of art and the Romantic spirit! How could the other two be so still? 

" _How_ can Bahorel sleep? He, who spurred on the crowds today, in such joy and fury? He should be awake with us and celebrating."

Prouvaire did not expect an answer to any of this, but Grantaire gave one anyway, though his words were directed at the ceiling. "Jean Prouvaire, why would you think lying on the floor in pain should be called 'celebrating'? I feel sorry for any man who thinks so; he has lived a life of dullness and monotony. We should go out more often, to ensure you know what a celebration really is. Anyway, Bahorel is a veteran of rebellion. Today was practically routine for him."

"It was _not_ routine, but _please!_ You must call me 'Jehan' today. Today, if not any other day. It fits with- with the theme of this evening."

"The 'theme'? The theme of a night of chaos, of 'art', of me being forced to witness you attempting to bite off another man's nose. And for what? I don't know why I attended that dreadful play with you."

Prouvaire turned his head to look at his friend, but Grantaire was still staring upwards. "Well then, I don't understand. Why did you come? You've never seemed very interested in Romanticism or Hugo or _Hernani_. Why did you come, and moreover, why did you help us fight those- those-" Prouvaire broke off with a disgusted noise, wrinkling his nose. He could not think of a name bad enough for the Classicists. 

"Your guess is as good as mine." Grantaire yawned widely, and stretched. "Should I be carefully examining my every little mood or whim? You're right, I don't put stock in any of those things, but I do believe in a good night out. How was I to know how it all would end?"

"No." Prouvaire gazed at him with his uninjured eye, brow knitted, having realized something. "No, you-" As he was lying rather far from Grantaire, he rolled to get closer to make his point and, still too far away, rolled again. Now right against his friend's side, Prouvaire said firmly, "No. We told you how it all would end; we told you what we were planning. You may not care about the furtherance of Romanticism or- or any other cause, but there are other things that are important to you. I can see it plainly; I am a poet and therefore not easily fooled!" His piece said as passionately as he could manage it, Prouvaire rested his head on his arm. As much as he would have liked to stay awake, his energy was finally expended.

Grantaire looked over at him at last, then shook his head. "Yes, Jehan," he said, closing his eyes. "You are indeed a poet--and easily prone to fantasy."


	20. Goosed (G; Courfeyrac, Grantaire, Bossuet, Bahorel, Jean Prouvaire)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A ficlet for the À Force d'Amitié fest, and a mini sequel to [La Beauté du Diable de l'Esprit.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4465031)

If there was anything Courfyerac had learned over the past day or so, it was that nothing in Paris was quite what it seemed. Lesgle and his many names, the law student Bahorel’s refusal to become a lawyer, Jean Prouvaire’s outlandishness–all was unexpected, confusing, and _exciting_. Even in light of the horrific headache Courfeyrac was nursing at breakfast, he was happier than he had ever been in his life, picking at pastries and coffee with his new friends and a new acquaintance.

Grantaire, a mutual friend of Lesgle, Bahorel, and Prouvaire, had met them at the café. Here was someone else who was not as they first appeared. Grantaire was a short man, with a blotchy visage and wiry black hair and moustache, and was more drunk than anyone should ever be at nine in the morning. Courfeyrac had expected to get nothing but incoherent mumbling out of him, but this was not the case. Everything that came out of Grantaire involved a great stream of words. Upon their arrival, he had hailed them with a speech, which became an argument over the classics with Prouvaire, which became a volley of quips with Bossuet, which became a relation of last night’s escapades with Bahorel, which then ended in Grantaire posing two simple questions to Courfeyrac: “A goose? You have a goose in your rooms?”

“Apparently so,” said Courfeyrac, dizzy from both the words and his hangover. “Or at least, that is what Bahorel tells me. I did not see the creature, but I was sure I heard something rustling around the sitting room. I couldn’t- I just left it there.” He gave a rueful smile. “It’s probably raising merry hell in my flat as we speak. I hope the landlady doesn’t catch wind of it.”

Grantaire let out a burst of gravely laughter. “ _What_ is this now?

"He found it last night, on the banks of the Seine–not that he remembers any of this, of course,” Bahorel clarified. He nudged Courfeyrac with an elbow, eyebrows raised in mock seriousness. “Poor, poor boy. He was nearly in tears; he wanted to take his new friend home so badly. What could I do but let him?”

“You might have tried to talk some sense into me,” Courfeyrac replied, unable to keep a tremor of laughter out of his voice.

Disregarding this appeal to reason, Jean Prouvaire settled an unfocused gaze upon him and said dreamily, “It is a great and noble thing to follow your impulses, no matter what they may be. You must never deny your true nature.” He blinked slowly.

“Opium,” Grantaire pronounced, eyeing Prouvaire. “I hope you brought enough to share, Jehan. What else are you Romantics good for, if not for providing substances that will distract us from this dreary world?”

“It _is_ probably busy destroying all of your things, Courfeyrac,” Lesgle cut in before more bickering could start. “You might want to _remedy_ the situation as soon as you can.”

“And how do you suppose I do that?”

“Well, you will _certainly_ need our help evicting the beast,” said Grantaire, as though he had a wealth of experience in such matters. “ _After_ breakfast, of course.”

* * *

Some time later, the men stood in the doorway of Courfeyrac’s flat. The goose, no longer hidden in the wreckage it had made of the sitting room, stared back at them with black, vacant eyes. 

Lesgle grimaced. “Perhaps we could, euh, _herd_ it? Out the window?” He voiced this suggestion with much less confidence than Courfeyrac would have liked.

“Ah, it will work!” said Grantaire, clearly enjoying himself much more than the situation warranted. “Courfeyrac, my fine fellow, you shall circle around there to open the window. The rest of us will close in upon the beast to push it outside.”

With some amount of trepidation, Courfeyrac inched forward, skirting around the goose, carefully stepping around bits of debris and droppings on the floor. The bird’s blank stare followed him slowly. 

Halfway to the window, Courfeyrac stepped on a bit of broken porcelain, which crunched loudly in the otherwise silent room. Suddenly enraged, the goose let out a great shrieking honk and lunged at Courfeyrac’s head, flapping wildly. Courfeyrac ducked, and the bird hit Lesgle full in the face, knocking him to the ground. Too shocked to even cry out, Lesgle managed to shove the bird away, and it stood still again, feathers ruffled and beak opened threateningly. Bahorel and Grantaire stepped forward to drag Lesgle to his feet, Grantaire nearly crying with laughter. 

“Poor creature!” said Jean Prouvaire, who had not moved at all in the commotion.

“‘Poor _creature’?_ Poor _me!_ ” cried Lesgle, dusting himself off. “I propose a new plan: To capture and cook it. It would be no less than it deserves!”

“ _We cannot eat him!_ He is _trapped_ ; he yearns and cries out for freedom–body and soul!” Prouvaire wobbled toward the goose, hand slightly outstretched. “Don’t you see? We cannot just chase it out. We must _commune_ with it; we must _commune_ with _nature_ and become one with it. Do we not find ourselves reflected within it?”

“What? _No_ ,” Lesgle laughed. “I would rather _protect_ nature by not setting that evil creature loose again. Come, Jehan. What do you say to a nice stuffed goose?”

“A delicious plan,” said Bahorel, grinning at the sour expression he received from Prouvaire.

“ _I shall never-_ " 

The goose had had enough. It honked malevolently again, and bit Prouvaire on the hand. With a deafening roar that made everyone but Bahorel jump backward in alarm, Prouvaire kicked at the bird, which flapped around, terrified, before tottering out the still open door, its frightened honking growing more and more distant as it flopped down each flight of stairs.

Everyone else stared at Prouvaire. He dropped to the ground, cradling his injured hand, and cried out, ” _Oh_ , woe settles upon me, _for I shall never be at one with nature!_ “

Utterly shocked, Courfeyrac sank down onto the window ledge. Grantaire, with a lopsided smile on his face, shuffled over to join him. After a moment of watching Bahorel trying to raise Prouvaire from the floor, and of watching Lesgle shakily lie back down upon it, Grantaire turned to pat Courfeyrac on the shoulder. "Too bad! We might have had a feast, hmm? Oh, and I forgot to say, since you are new here: Welcome to Paris.”

From somewhere downstairs, the landlady screamed.


	21. Le Siège (G; Combeferre/OMC)

 "That was _marvelous_ , wasn't it? I do always enjoy Rossini's sets--they are my favorite part! And wasn't that tenor- What's his name? The one who played Cléomène? Anyway, _he_ was just splendid." Marceau Guérin covered the hand Combeferre had tucked into the crook of his elbow with his own. "Really, I'm surprised you've never seen anything by Rossini before. You go to the theater often enough."

"His operas are usually in Italian," said Combeferre quietly, keeping in step with Marceau's quick pace as they walked back through the Latin Quarter's dark streets.

"True. I suppose you wouldn't catch many of the words in that case. But you could still appreciate the sets and music."

"I suppose I could follow and appreciate the _plot_ and _themes_ without understanding many of the words," Combeferre replied, rather more sharply than he had intended. They had reached his lodgings at last, and Marceau glanced at him, concerned, as they walked past the sleepy concierge and up the stairs to the third floor. As much as he wanted to, Combeferre could not say anything to soften his terse words; his mind was too full of _Le Siège de Corinthe'_ s last scene: the fire, Hiéros' declaration that their country would gain its freedom once more, the remaining Greeks' last stand and sacrifice amongst the tombs.

"You know," said Marceau gently as they reached Combeferre's landing. "I think there is no shame in enjoying an opera for what it is--of viewing and appreciating it for the spectacle without dissecting it."

"The spectacle is entertaining, yes." On the point of pulling out his key to enter his flat, Combeferre turned around to face Marceau.  "But what is the point of art if not to deliver messages on which to ruminate, learn, and apply to other, more pertinent circumstances? You know _why_ Rossini wrote that opera."

"That is true, but surely being entertained is worth something in and of itself." Marceau crossed his arms, but he was not angry, or even irritated. "I know about the war the Greeks currently fight, but why ruminate on something which clearly upsets you?"

" _Because sometimes the most upsetting truths are the most-_ " Combeferre broke off, took a breath, and tried for a more level tone. "I cannot find _Le Siège de Corinthe_ wholly entertaining. That is not why I go to the theater."

"I did not mean to dampen your spirits by taking you there," Marceau sighed, rather dejected. "I like Rossini but we might have seen something else--a comedy, perhaps. We have just been so busy with class lately we've hardly had a moment-" He broke off and then, quite unexpectedly, the corners of his moustache lifted in a small smile. " _Perhaps we will never agree._ "

The smile perplexed Combeferre. "Perhaps."

"Obviously you must invite me in and _persuade_ me of your point of view."

It was a terrible line, and not quite appropriate given the subject they had been discussing. But judging from the huge grin that spread across Marceau's face when he delivered it, he had thought of it long before and was delighted at finally having the opportunity to use it. Combeferre could not help but laugh, his mood lifted. "Yes, _obviously_."

Pleased, Marceau took a step forward to kiss him, and for a moment Combeferre could forget about his troubles, and could only think of the hard door at his back, the warm hands on his face, and the solid body in his arms. They broke off, both a little out of breath, but did not part completely. 

"I know you," Marceau said, pressing another kiss to Combeferre's cheek. "You are always compassionate. But Greece will succeed; you will see."

Combeferre's spirits dipped again, and he turned around to unlock the door. "We can hope. But that's not the _only_ reason why-" He did not know how to explain.

There was a short silence, during which Combeferre fiddled with the key. Just as he turned the knob, he felt Marceau wrap his arms around him from behind, pressing his face into the side of his neck. Combeferre stilled, and it took a moment for Marceau to speak again.

"I know," he said, so quietly Combeferre could barely hear him. "I know why. I just don't like to think about it."


	22. Novel III (G; Combeferre, Enjolras, Courfeyrac)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Notre-Dame de Paris_ continues its influence...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little sequel to [this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5945889/chapters/17932684) ficlet.

Awaking from a short nap, Combeferre was startled by a quick movement to his left and the sound of something solid being tossed and sliding across the coffee table. He fumbled to put on his spectacles and saw Enjolras, still sitting in the armchair nearest the stove, exactly as he had been doing before Combeferre had begged for a little rest; evening rounds at the hospital had been grueling that day.

Enjolras was gazing out the window, though the angle at which he had turned to do so was slightly too extreme to render his pose relaxed. Indeed, though his face was impassive, he seemed to Combeferre to be feigning nonchalance. 

Puzzled, Combeferre glanced from his friend to the coffee table, wondering what Enjolras had so quickly put aside. The only thing there was his copy of _Notre-Dame de Paris_ \--or rather, _Courfeyrac's_  copy, as it was _he_ who, after an hour of vehement debate with Combeferre regarding the merits of Romantic literature, had not-so-subtly 'forgotten' the novel in Combeferre's room. However, it was now on the opposite side of the table from where Combeferre had left it after a day or two of fervent reading. His confusion only increased. 

"Were you reading-"

"No."

Combeferre eyed him for a moment, and then heaved himself into a sitting position to pick up the novel and examine it. A page near the beginning was marked, the corner folded in a way that appeared deliberate. He opened the book to said page. 

It was the wedding night of Esmeralda and Pierre Gringoire, after the former had saved the latter from his execution. Esmeralda was threatening Gringoire with a knife. Though the main action of the book was only just beginning, Enjolras must have read voraciously if he had reached this part during the short time Combeferre had been asleep. 

Combeferre frowned. Not a week had passed since he had finished the book and, though finding much fault with it, he had been rather affected by the ending and had grudgingly admitted to himself, though _not_ to Courfeyrac, that he had liked it on the whole. 

He also remembered Enjolras' grimace when he had discovered Combeferre was reading such a book, by an author Enjolras could not hold in high regard. 

"What, _euh_ ," said Combeferre, treading carefully. "What do you think of it so far?"

Enjolras turned to his friend, though he did not quite meet Combeferre's eye when he replied, "I was not reading it. I do not read novels."

  

* * *

 

"Well?" Combeferre paced up and down the room impatiently. "Well? What do you think? Which part are you reading now?"

"I never meant to read the whole thing in one sitting," protested Enjolras, who had abandoned his previous façade of disinterest in the book. He turned the page, leaning forward on the edge of his seat. 

"I need to discuss it with you, and I _can't_ if you _aren't finished."_  

Enjolras ignored him, and snorted in derision at either the current chapter or himself. "'The book will kill architecture' indeed." He paused to think for a moment. "As much as it pains me to agree with Hugo or this novel, I must. And despite the trade which established my father and grandfather, I cannot regret the death of the edifice at the hands of the book. Hugo states it: 'The whole human race is on the scaffoldings.'  All can take part in their creation. Books are equalizing; they represent the spread of ideas more solid and lasting than mere stone."

"I don't disagree," said Combeferre eagerly, halting his pacing to face Enjolras. "But is there not a significant population which is ignored by this premise? Not everyone can read, and those who _can_ cannot read every language. Hugo himself cites examples of monuments and edifices from lands other than France. If I were to procure a book by their peoples, I would find it incomprehensible, no matter how grand the ideas contained within. Architecture, however, can be interpreted by all."

"Any language can be learned, and it still remains that _ideas_ contained in books are more lasting than any _physical_ object."

"Are they? By Hugo's own examples, many structures have already proven they can withstand thousands of years of-" 

Combeferre broke off, suddenly aware of a sound on the stairs: A quick, light step, up the stairs and on the landing. His stomach plummeted. 

_"Stop! Put it away!"_

He lunged over the back of the sofa, reaching for the novel in an effort to throw it out of sight. But Enjolras, too shocked at this sudden outburst to react, was not quick enough. The door opened, and Courfeyrac entered. 

For a moment their friend stood frozen in the doorway, surprised by the scene in front of him. His eyes traveled over Combeferre, draped awkwardly over the sofa, legs in the air, to Enjolras' startled expression, and finally to the book in his hands. Combeferre cringed as he watched a huge, triumphant grin spread over Courfeyrac's face. 

"So. What part are you on?"


	23. The Dead Parrot Sketch (G; Jean Prouvaire, Bahorel, Courfeyrac, Combeferre)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A birthday present for tumblr user amelancholycharm!

“He was an apology gift, you see. At my last party, a _resplendent_ affair, Théophile was holding one of my vases—about to praise its lovely pattern, no doubt—when Gerard arrived and- and he became so excited that he dropped and broke it! And you know Théo, he felt so terribly guilty that he came by two days later with this gift. A new pet! It makes up for the vase completely!” Jean Prouvaire beamed. “Is he not magnificent? The finest of birds!”

No one could bring themselves to respond immediately. Courfeyrac and Combeferre had been the only ones curious enough to accompany Prouvaire back to his rooms to view the creature following that evening’s meeting. Bahorel had already planned to visit there and, in any case, had already seen the parrot. Presently, he was smiling at the other two, waiting for their reactions, watching as they grappled with both politeness and horror.

In front of them, the parrot sat on its perch, swaying slightly as though it did not have the strength to balance itself. Half of its feathers were missing, and the ones that remained were pale and ragged. One of its eyes was milky white with cataracts. It cocked its head at Prouvaire and let out a raspy squawk.

“My God! It ought to be put out of its misery,” Courfeyrac hissed to Combeferre in an undertone. “Just _look_ at it!”

“How could you say such a thing?” Jean Prouvaire whipped around to face him. “He is perfectly healthy and happy! Demosthenes is merely a bit old, but parrots can live even longer than people. Just think of what he has seen and _experienced_ , and what a pity it is that he cannot share it.”

“If he looks like _that_ , I would rather not share in whatever it is he has _experienced_ ,” said Courfeyrac, eyeing the bird with concern. 

“He does look rather ill, Jehan,” Combeferre said gently, before Prouvaire could voice a retort. “It wouldn’t hurt to have someone take a look at him.”

“He’s not ill!” said Prouvaire, as a few more feathers fell from the parrot’s tail. “He’s _pining_. Pining for the wilds, for the fresh air! I shall take Demosthenes for a walk in the Luxembourg, or perhaps around Père Lachaise, and he will be as good as new. Won’t you, Demosthenes?”

The parrot gave another pitiful squawk before slipping off its perch and landing with a soft thud on the rug below. Utterly shocked, they all watched the bird lay on the floor for a moment, but it soon became clear that it would move no more. Prouvaire gave a wail and dropped to his knees.

“Oh dear,” said Combeferre, as Courfeyrac clapped a hand over his mouth.

For Prouvaire’s sake, Bahorel refrained from laughing outright, but could not stop himself from saying, “In Bossuet’s absence, I suppose I will step in instead. Sleep now, Demosthenes, former parrot. Though we many never share in the rich experiences to which he bore witness, perhaps you, Jehan, may learn a valuable lesson about accepting sickly birds as gifts from your friends. As for the bird, do not despair over it. Bereft of life, it rests now in peace. Stone dead; deceased, to the surprise of no one. It has passed on, ceased to be, gone to meet its maker. This parrot is no more.” Bahorel removed his hat and bowed his head. “ _Perroquet jamais.”_


	24. Novel IV (G; Feuilly, Enjolras, Courfeyrac, Jean Prouvaire, Bahorel, Combeferre)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feuilly reads a certain book. Continuation of Novel II and Novel III.

There was a certain time of day, a dark hour following sunset before the street lamps were lit, which was particularly suited to conducting private and secretive business.

One day, during this critical juncture, Feuilly could be found crossing Place St-Michel, glancing behind himself at intervals, skirting along the shadowy buildings and then peering around the entrance to the narrow Rue de Gres. Empty. Clutching the strap of his satchel tightly, he darted down the street a short way, halting again at the private door to the backroom of the Café Musain. He tipped his head toward the door, straining for any sound, any hint that he was not alone. Silence. Upon cracking open the door to check inside, he confirmed it was empty. He had succeeded.

Satisfied, safe with the knowledge that the Society’s evening meeting was still an hour away, Feuilly settled himself comfortably at his preferred table nearest the fireplace. After a last pause to listen for anyone approaching, he pulled a copy of _Notre-Dame de Paris_ from depths of his satchel, opening it to a marked page near the end.

Half of his friends had been in enthusiastic uproar over this novel, the latest of Victor Hugo’s works, discussing and sometimes outright arguing over it at every opportunity. Indeed, just two days ago, Jean Prouvaire had flung his copy at Courfeyrac in an outburst of passion and anger over a disagreement on Quasimodo’s characterization. Such a particular, or _peculiar_ , brand of zeal had never before swept through their group.

Ultimately, this had been the reason Feuilly was so leery against discovery. Though he could never ignore the opportunity to read a book so highly praised by his friends, he shuddered at the idea of being dragged into their throes of Romantic fervor—particularly as he always seemed to come to more practical conclusions to every argument he overheard on the subject. Though not one to shy from debate, he was also not one to welcome books thrown at his face.

Presently, however, Feuilly was finding practicality rather difficult—Esmeralda and her poor mother had just reunited only to be immediately torn apart again, and as much as Feuilly wanted to be annoyed at Esmeralda’s inability to keep quiet when soldiers were so near, the tragedy of the women’s situation overtook him. The page in front of him blurred and he tried to clear the sudden tightness in his throat, but a moment later a noise startled him. He looked around furiously for its source, and upon realizing what it was, his stomach plummeted.

There were voices in the corridor leading from the Musain’s main room, growing louder as their owners approached. A terrible vision flashed before him, of being discovered with the book in his hands, of being cornered by Courfeyrac and Bahorel as Prouvaire interrogated him about his opinion regarding Claude Frollo’s morality.

One flash of panic was all it took for Feuilly to trap himself. Instead of slipping the book back into his satchel where it belonged, he leaped up, placed it on his chair, and sat on it.

“I know what you will say on the subject, but I don’t care,” Courfeyrac was saying, peeved, as he, Bahorel, and Prouvaire entered the room and gathered around a neighboring table. Enjolras and Combeferre trailed behind them, the former seating himself next to Feuilly with a small smile, the latter setting up at his own table nearby and laying out a collection of drafts for their latest pamphlet—the main task for the evening’s meeting. As he sat down, Courfeyrac was still speaking: “The ending of the book was particularly horrific. Poetic, yes, but unnerving. I was left so _uncomfortable_ -“

“And why would that be?” Jean Prouvaire cried, flinging himself into his seat. “Do you not _feel_ for Quasimodo at all? Understand why he acted as he did, nor appreciate the _tragic symbolism_ in his final-“

As he had not yet read the passage being discussed, Feuilly desperately tried to stop listening. Courfeyrac’s next words, however, were too loud to tune out.

“I understand _perfectly well_ , but I still cannot sigh fondly at the idea of _curling up with a corpse and starving to death._ ”

Dismayed, Feuilly glanced around the room for something with which to distract himself. He noticed Enjolras next to him, impassively holding a sheet of notes as if reading it, though his eyes were not moving. At the other table, Combeferre had paused in his work, brow knitted and lips thinned in the expression he usually adopted before adding his own sharp opinion to a conversation but, curiously, he remained silent.

Courfeyrac seemed to notice all of this and added pointedly, “I’m certain that _other_ people who _have_ in fact read _Notre-Dame de Paris_ would agree with me, if only they were _present and willing to reveal themselves_.”

Combeferre started and, red in the face, said hastily, “Feuilly? You have the draft of your article, don’t you?”

“Yes, here it- euh.” 

Feuilly froze. Leaving his chair to give Combeferre his draft would mean revealing the book he was hiding. Surely his friends would notice—and then he would be doomed. He looked at Combeferre helplessly, but received only a confused expression in return. 

It could not be prevented. He rose and started for Combeferre’s table, paper in hand. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Enjolras look down at the book on the chair.

“If only they were present, indeed,” said Bahorel, continuing their debate and smirking at Courfeyrac. “I know it is not easy for you to be _bested_ in an argument.”

Suitably provoked, Courfeyrac rose from his chair and strode to where Enjolras was still sitting, and to Feuilly’s empty seat. With a thrill of horror, Feuilly caught Enjolras’ eye and gave him a silent, pleading look. Enjolras glanced over to him and smoothly shifted from one chair to the other, neatly hiding the novel again. 

Fortunately, Courfeyrac was too incensed to comment on this peculiarity. “Enjolras,” he leaned over Enjolras’ table, exasperated. “I really _am_ tired of this charade. You’ve read the book and I _know_ you agree with me. Please back me up on this!”

“Have you read it, Enjolras?” Prouvaire stood as well. “Have you? Well, you surely agree with _me_ , don’t you? _You_ can appreciate the symbolism in it!”

Feuilly turned to Combeferre, silently questioning what they should do to rescue their friend, but Combeferre merely looked aggrieved, and went back to organizing his papers.

As his friends closed in upon him, Enjolras slid back in his chair and the book slipped from beneath him. _Notre-Dame de Paris_ dropped to the floor with a solid _thunk,_ but it was the silence afterwards that was deafening.

Curious, Courfeyrac picked up the novel and, within an instant, realized to whom it belonged. “Hold on a moment, this isn’t- Feuilly, is this _yours_?”

Mouth dry, Feuilly watched his friends turn toward him with delight and, as Combeferre quietly sidled away behind him, steeled himself.


	25. Congratulations (G; Enjolras, Bahorel, Courfeyrac, Bossuet)

The moment Enjolras entered the first floor of the Corinthe, he was met with a loud, triple "congratulations!" A second later, he was knocked off his feet with the force of Bahorel's embrace.

"Oh, thank God!" said Courfeyrac, clutching his heart. "It took you so long to be struck off the role this term, we thought you'd gone mad and decided to pass the bar. I've never been so thrilled to be wrong in my life!"

"Who was it, Enjolras?" Bossuet perched himself on the edge of a nearby table and watched with amusement as Bahorel, still intent on his hug, dragged Enjolras to the ground. "Who should we be thanking for rescuing you from so terrible a fate?"

Enjolras, who seemed to have decided that struggling was futile and had let himself be cuddled as he lay on the floor, made a muffled noise into Bahorel's shoulder that sounded vaguely like "Blondeau."

"Hah! I wouldn't have expected anyone else. That walking corpse! Who shall I eulogize this time: Our dear professor or your law career?"

"You've eulogized Blondeau on so many occasions I am starting to suspect he is some supernatural creature, having been raised from the dead and returned to the grave so many times." Courfeyrac faked a shudder. "Eulogize Enjolras' law career, if you please; it is the death more worth celebrating."

"I knew you had it in you to fail," said Bahorel, reaching up to pat Enjolras on the top of the head but still refusing to let go of him. "We'll have a grand dinner party tonight to celebrate--on me, of course."

This prospect pleased Bossuet and Courfeyrac enough that they joined the pile of bodies on the floor. Crushed beneath his friends, Enjolras made another muffled sound, which may have been a "thank you", before Matelote came over with her broom, and jokingly threatened to sweep the heap of degenerates up with the dust.


	26. Crème Brûlée (G; Combeferre, Enjolras)

"It's a recipe my mother found in one of her mother's stash of cooking notes," Combeferre said, pulling out a long match. He looked up from where he was standing over his desk to Enjolras, who was sitting patiently at the nearby table, a napkin at one hand and a spoon in the other. "And she, in turn, sent it to me. The recipe is apparently difficult to find these days, but is thankfully not terribly difficult to make--if one's landlady is willing to let one borrow the kitchen for an afternoon."

"And it is simply a custard?" asked Enjolras, observing the dessert nestled in two shallow dishes Combeferre had in front of him. He could not understand why Combeferre was so interested in making it, never mind having him over specifically to sample it, if so.

"Well, yes." From a little bowl to one side, Combeferre fished out a few pinches of sugar, sprinkling it over the custards. "But with a small difference."

He lit the match, and Enjolras watched him hold it just over the surface of the custard. The sugar beneath the flame melted, reflecting the afternoon sunshine for a moment before darkening. Combeferre moved the match in circles until every bit of sugar was browned, creating a flat, crisp layer over the dessert. Smiling, he set the completed dish in front of Enjolras before turning back to the desk to brown the sugar on his own.

"You see, the heat from the flame creates some sort of chemical reaction within the sugar, causing this change in physical properties. While I'm no chef, I'm perfectly certain this phenomena is present in cooking all manner of dishes. Perhaps it is even present in other sorts of reactions as well. It would be simply fascinating to investigate the chemistry behind it further."

His custard's sugar browned to his liking, Combeferre blew out the match. He set his dessert on the table and then paused, surprised, upon noticing Enjolras' innocent expression--and completely empty dish.

"What do you think?" Combeferre asked, trying not to laugh.

"I think it is a perfectly worthwhile endeavor," Enjolras said with dignity, reaching across the table with his spoon.


	27. The Worst Patient (G; Enjolras/Combeferre)

“Come,  _just let be_ –By dissections begin again soon, and I'b bainfully behind on by anadomical studies. I had wanded to edit by article for our new pamphlet, and by  _internat_  examination is in only a bonth!  _If you’d just allow be up_ , I can-" 

Combeferre collapsed in a fit of coughing and Enjolras, for what seemed like the millionth time, put a hand on his shoulder and pushed him gently back down onto the bed.

"It is true what they say about doctors being the worst patients,” he said mildly, pouring out a glass of water for Combeferre.

He received only a mutinous look in return before Combeferre was obliged to fumble for a handkerchief on the nightstand and blow his nose loudly. Enjolras could not suppress a small smile at this. He reached over to brush a lock of hair from Combeferre’s warm forehead, and this seemed to dissolve some of Combeferre’s ire.

“I don’d know how you can look at be like that, considering how disgusding I bust be.”

“So you admit you are ill.”

“I-” Combeferre gave a huff, muffled from his stuffy nose.

“You admit you are ill,” Enjolras continued. “Yet refuse to rest. Is this the advice you would give any of your patients, if they were in your condition?”

“This is unfair. I cannot keeb up with your argumends in by current state.”

Enjolras bent down to kiss Combeferre on the forehead, ignoring the sulk into which he had fallen. “You refuse to sleep–so be it. If you just agree to stay in bed, I can edit your article  _and_  read your anatomy notes to you, if you like.” He smoothed the coverlet around the other’s shoulders, sitting down at the edge of the bed.

Something about this seemed to appease Combeferre, for his expression softened for a moment but, as though unwilling to admit defeat, he attempted a scowl before blowing his nose again. “Fine. I  _subbose_  I can accept those terbs.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

Within five minutes of Enjolras reading aloud from his friend’s scribbled notes, Combeferre was dead asleep, snoring loudly. Satisfied, Enjolras set the papers aside and rose to close the curtains and adjust Combeferre’s pillows, smiling slightly to himself.


	28. Just Beautiful (G; Feuilly, Bahorel)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by tumblr user fixaidea.

It had been a very great while since Feuilly had had a chance to go to the theater. Even if he had managed to save up enough for a decent seat rather than one up in the rafters, he often did not have the time for such things. Tonight, however, he had been in luck; he did not have to work the following day, he had no obligations to worry about, and he had the very great pleasure of being treated to a box by Bahorel, who had invited their entire political group to join in, along with some Romantic fellows of his acquaintance. 

In the front row, Feuilly could stretch out, ignoring the chatter of his friends behind him in favor of listening to Giuditta Pasta’s aria. Her voice rose and reverberated throughout the whole of the room, lifting to a  bright and shining note before dropping down low again, taking Feuilly’s heart along with it. 

Though he was not paying much attention to anything but the stage, Feuilly eventually noticed a noise, just loud enough to be distracting, which punctuated the music from time to time. Brow furrowed, he tore his eyes from the performance to discover what it was.   
  
Beside Feuilly, Bahorel was sitting with his elbows on the edge of the box, leaning as far forward in his seat as possible, uncharacteristically quiet. As Feuilly turned to him he saw, almost disbelievingly, a tear roll down his friend’s cheek. 

It was rather uncharitable, Feuilly thought, that his initial reaction to this sight was to laugh. Bahorel glanced over his shoulder at him, indignant, and Feuilly fought to control himself. He scooted forward in his seat and wrapped an arm around his friend’s shoulders. 

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

Feuilly supposed his laughter was forgiven, for Bahorel leaned into him a moment later, still sniffling.  

“Yes. Just beautiful.” 


	29. The End (T; Enjolras, Combeferre)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by tumblr user baronmaximilian

It was odd, thought Combeferre, to be confronted with the end of one’s life. In the past, before 1830, he had imagined what it might be like and the thought of it, and the thought of whatever might come after, had filled him with dread. But now that the moment had come, in actuality and without alternative, he found himself perfectly calm. 

Enjolras and Combeferre had left the men, entered the Corinthe and found the little corner where they had set aside the four National Guard uniforms–all in the silence that comes from two people being so familiar with each other that words are rendered unnecessary.   
  
There was not much time–every moment wasted was a moment that four among their number could use to escape–but a thought seemed to strike him and Enjolras simultaneously, and they had paused together and turned towards each other. 

Neither said a word. Combeferre tried to think of something, but after so many years of work, of triumph, of failure, of friendship, what could possibly be said that could be in any way adequate? This was the last time they would be alone together. Perhaps they would not even have a moment, after this, to say goodbye. There was nothing else Combeferre could do but step forward and embrace his friend.

Enjolras wrapped his arms around Combeferre in turn, holding him tightly, and Combeferre buried his face into the other’s shoulder, taking in every sensation, wanting to remember every little detail.

Combeferre would have given anything to stay like that for hours–for the rest of his life–safe and warm in Enjolras’ arms, but they were required to part. A tightness gripped Combeferre’s throat, but he took a breath and gathered up two of the National Guard uniforms while Enjolras did the same, and together they walked across the room and out into the street again.

There was still much to do before the end. 


	30. Darkness (T; Combeferre/Prouvaire)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by tumblr user combeferre.

The darkness of Prouvaire’s flat allowed the haze of smoke hanging in the air to become yet more visible–grey against the dark of the room. Combeferre watched it swirl around him idly, taking a long drag on Prouvaire’s pipe. Had he been able to think at all in that moment, he would have asked himself how he had gotten in this position, and why he had decided to stay. 

He had come to Prouvaire’s flat that evening on the flimsy pretext of borrowing a book but, to his dismay, Prouvaire was sitting on the floor with a group of other friends, smoking and chatting. He supposed he could not complain, however. He had been invited in, after all, and was currently lying in a nest of pillows, quite comfortable despite the circumstances. Without either of them thinking much of it, Prouvaire had snaked an arm beneath Combeferre’s head while he lay beside him, speaking of poetry and symbolism, somehow both shy and bold.

Pleased, Combeferre settled against him, tucking himself snugly into Prouvaire’s side. The swirl of the smoke was becoming too much to bear; his head was swimming, his mind in a fog. Eventually, as Prouvaire’s voice died away, and the people around them began dropping off to sleep or murmuring about other things, Combeferre turned his face against Prouvaire’s neck, and suppressed a smile at the goosebumps he caused as Prouvaire drew him still closer.


	31. Tears (G; Feuilly, Enjolras)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by anonymous.

If there was any way that afternoon’s meeting could have gone worse, Feuilly did not wish to imagine it. It was true, Enjolras did not think the group they had found, gathering in the southernmost part of the city, would want anything to do with them. But who could truly know? One cannot gather allies without looking. Better to meet with them and be turned away than not to try at all. 

Nothing, however, could have prepared them for the so-called welcome they had received. The group was small and newly formed, and the unusual, remote location proved to be simply a place where they could play at politics–secretive for show. These were students and members of the petite bourgeoisie who wanted all of the intrigue of being a part of a political group without any of the work or risk. When they had discovered that the Friends of the ABC was as unlike them as it was possible to be, the discussion quickly went downhill. Derision and mockery had been flung at Enjolras and Feuilly from left and right. Finally, Enjolras rose to give a sharp rebuff, more reminiscent of Combeferre than of himself, and was outright insulted as he and Feuilly left.

Some of Feuilly’s outrage had died away, but he and Enjolras remained in a shellshocked silence as they headed north, finally reaching the Luxembourg Gardens and crossing through it. The weather was in sharp contrast to their stormy afternoon; the sun shone, birds chirped, and springtime flowers bloomed.

Slightly ahead of Feuilly, Enjolras made a faint noise. Thinking he had said something too quiet to be heard properly, Feuilly increased his stride to catch up with him, and then almost froze when he caught sight of his friend’s face. 

Enjolras’ brows were furrowed, eyes red and so filled with tears that, surely, he could barely see. This nearly horrified Feuilly. When had Enjolras ever been so angry, so upset, that he had given vent to his emotions in such a way? Enjolras’ step faltered, and Feuilly caught him in his arms, embracing him as he guided him to a nearby bench. They sat, but Feuilly did not let go. The very idea that Enjolras needed comfort was foreign to him, but Feuilly ran his hand up and down the other’s arm all the same, holding him close.

“My friend, are you-” He did not get to finish his question. Enjolras wrinkled his nose, and then sneezed so loudly the birds in a nearby tree all took flight. 

Feuilly himself was almost blown backwards by the force of this sneeze, but instead clung to Enjolras tighter, thoroughly alarmed. Enjolras gave a few sniffs before fishing a handkerchief from his pocket, and cast a grim look at a nearby flowerbed before wiping his nose.

“I hope you are not too discouraged from this afternoon, Friend Feuilly,” said Enjolras from behind the handkerchief. “We wasted our time, it’s true, but we still have other prospects. There is a group of masons with whom I’ve been speaking. We are going to meet at their lodge within the coming week, if you would consent to join me.”

“I-” Feuilly blinked, still shaking off his surprise, and relaxed his grip on his friend. “All right. I do hope  _they_  are more willing to recognize the progress we wish to make.“ 

Enjolras smiled, his eyes still a bit watery, and leaned a little into Feuilly’s embrace. "You are just the person to help them see it.”


	32. Demands (G; Combeferre, Courfeyrac)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by tumblr user ratheralark.

“This is the worst thig that has ever habbened to be,” Courfeyrac sniffled, leaning forward to scoop more armfuls of pillows and blankets onto himself in bed. “I was subbosed to go see  _Guillaume Tell_  with Bahorel tonight, and dow I shall  _dever_ go and he will tell be  _all_  the exciting plot points just to spite be.  _To spite be, Cobbeferre!_ ”

Combeferre could only smile at the constant,  _unceasing_ melodrama that Courfeyrac exuded whenever he was the least bit ill–though this time, perhaps, the complaining was a bit understandable. Courfeyrac had been bedridden for days, feverish and with a running nose, coughing frightfully, and Combeferre had been worried enough to stay with him the whole time to ensure he did not take a turn for the worse.

Presently, Combeferre sat at the edge of the bed and adjusted the pillow beneath his friend’s head, and then tried to arrange the mound of blankets above him. He received a round-eyed look, one which was clearly honed to elicit pity. Combeferre bit his lip to prevent a laugh, but acquiesced: “I’m sorry you will miss your opera. We can go when you are well, if you like.”

“Doh!” Courfeyrac rolled over under his blanket cocoon. “ _Doh!_  Everyone will habe seen it by then!”

Combeferre was quite certain Bahorel was the only one among their friends who had decided to go, and that Joly and Bossuet had specifically refrained from attending until Courfeyrac was well and could accompany them, but instead of mentioning this, he changed the subject: “Would you like me to read to you, to get your mind off of it?”

For whatever reason, Courfeyrac jumped on this idea. From the depths of his blankets, he pulled out a little book and handed it to Combeferre.

“ _L’Abbaye de Northanger?_ ” said Combeferre, as he turned over the book in his hands. “I didn’t think you were one to like English literature.”

“You don’t  _know_. I can like  _sombe_ of it.”

“You aren’t going to make me read this love story, are you?”

“Yes. Or maybe I have a Gothic novel I haven’d-”

“Never mind.” Combeferre opened the book, but Courfeyrac interrupted him with another disapproving noise. “What is it?”

“You are too far away.”

Combeferre sighed and moved to sit against the headboard, feet on the bed. “Better?”

“Doh! Aren’d you a doctor? Don’d you know how to take care of a dying patiend?”

“I can tell you were the youngest in your family,” Combeferre said, moving closer. Courfeyrac huffed, but otherwise chose to ignore this statement. He settled flush against Combeferre’s side, leaning his warm temple against his friend’s arm, flinging his own across Combeferre’s waist and snuggling in like a well-loved pet. 

Combeferre smiled. “Comfortable?”

“Yes. And start from the part where Catherine first beets Bonsieur Tilney.” He burrowed into Combeferre further. “It’s by very favorite.”


	33. Certainty (G; Combeferre/OMC)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by anonymous.

Earlier in the evening, Combeferre had felt quite confident in what he was doing. At long last, he had had an uninterrupted dinner with Marceau–no friends had stopped by to chat, neither of them had to hurry away due to other engagements, and they had talked enthusiastically all night. There hadn’t been the slightest hiccup. This was why Combeferre, in a moment of inspiration brought on by their conversation turning to languages, invited Marceau to his rooms to have a look at his work deciphering hieroglyphics. 

Now, however, as he and Marceau stood, shoulders touching, leaning over a desk strewn with Combeferre’s copious notes, uneasiness set in. Perhaps he had gotten the wrong impression. Certainly, Marceau had been eager to accept every dinner invitation, every suggestion of a walk or a trip to a café, and had returned these invitations regularly, but what did this signify? What exactly had he shown to Combeferre that was something other than friendship? Combeferre had never embarked on this sort of liaison before. Of course, he thought, he had misinterpreted everything.

To make matters far worse, now that he was so terribly aware of his own inexperience, he could not stop talking. He had been going on for a good ten minutes without stopping, explaining this or that symbol, how it might sound if read, what it could mean. Marceau listened but said nothing and Combeferre wondered if he was actually interested or only very good at politely feigning interest.

Marceau drew back slightly, and Combeferre inwardly despaired–of course he had had enough, and would make an excuse to leave. But this shift was only to wrap an arm around Combeferre’s back, almost questioningly, and this distracted Combeferre enough that he stopped talking. 

“Is there something the matter?” Marceau made to let go of Combeferre, but Combeferre shook his head and, to his private horror, felt himself blush. 

“No. It’s only-” He dropped his gaze, frowning down at the scribbled notes and diagrams littering the desk. “This- this doesn’t interest you, does it?”

“It does!” Marceau assured him. They were very close together, Combeferre realized, as Marceau’s arm settled back into place around him. “I admit, I know next to nothing about ancient languages, but it  _is_  fascinating.” He smiled, and Combeferre felt dizzy. “Especially when you are the one talking about it.”

They would tease each other, later on, about who leaned in first then, but in the moment it did not matter. Combeferre found himself wrapped in an embrace, warm lips on his, Marceau’s moustache tickling his nose. Eventually the kiss ended, but they did not think to part; Combeferre instead lay his head on the other’s shoulder, all his apprehensions and second-guessing replaced by happiness.

“ _Finally,_ ” he muttered, which made Marceau burst into laughter.

“We might have moved faster, but I wasn’t certain-” He shook his head. “No matter. We’ll make up for lost time, eh?”

This thought, though uttered half-jokingly, proved a very appealing way to spend the evening–and the poor hieroglyphics were quickly forgotten. 


	34. Unfinished (G; Bahorel, Jean Prouvaire)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by tumblr user pilferingapples.

“No, Bahorel, no! It’s not finished–it’s not fit to be read yet!“ 

Bahorel, beside himself with laughter, held the scrap of paper just out of Jean Prouvaire’s reach, keeping him at bay with his other arm. “If you’re trying your hand at an epic about  _me_ , then of course it’s fit to be read. Stop digging your fingers into me–just accept your defeat!”

For a moment, Bahorel thought Prouvaire had actually heeded him. He drew back, in any case, but it was only to gain enough room to charge forward again with enough momentum to tackle Bahorel to the ground.

They grappled for a few minutes, Bahorel still breathless with laughter. Jean Prouvaire, despite his thin frame and long, wiry limbs, was much stronger than he appeared. As Bahorel tried to scramble away, Prouvaire grabbed him by the ankle and with one great tug dragged him backward. Bahorel barely managed to flip over onto his back before Prouvaire was upon him, pinning him down and snatching the poem from his hand. 

“Aha!” said Prouvaire, before collapsing on top of Bahorel, rather out of breath. “I’ve got it. I do promise you, you can read it when I complete it, but  _not_  until then.”

“You great lump.” Bahorel slung an arm over Prouvaire’s back. “You should learn to share.”

“ _No_. I’ll hear no more complaints, or else I will make you the villain of the whole thing instead of the hero!” Prouvaire tucked the poem into his frayed waistcoat’s pocket and set his chin on his hand, his elbow digging into Bahorel’s chest. “You won’t be able to brood dramatically and rescue fair maidens from the clutches of monarchical tyrants if you are the villain. Learn patience–you’ve been warned!”

“Patience! A fool’s concept.” Slowly, as Prouvaire lay his head down, looking entirely too smug, Bahorel shifted his hand, and reached two fingers into Prouvaire’s pocket to grasp the piece of paper, secretly slipping it out again. “You know as well as I do that everything worth doing is worth doing at once.”


	35. The Depths of Despair (G; Marius Pontmercy, Courfeyrac)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by tumblr user combeferre.

When Marius had finally ceased his wanderings for the night and arrived back at Courfeyrac’s flat, he found his friend lying on the mattress– _his_ mattress, Marius was tempted to think, though he knew this was ungrateful–on the floor, gazing up at the ceiling. Courfeyrac was still in his finest coat, which he had donned earlier in the evening to attend a party. He sighed audibly,  _plaintively_ when Marius closed the door behind himself.

Unsure of how to respond to this, Marius said nothing, removing his hat and coat and hanging them on the rack near the door. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Courfeyrac lift his head slightly to look at him before dropping it back to the pillow and sighing again, louder and more pointedly.

Marius made a face. “Courfeyrac?”

“Oh, Marius! I did not see you come in.” Courfeyrac flung out an arm towards him, letting it fall heavily onto the mattress, as though holding it up was far too much effort for someone in his condition. “Come, Marius, come closer. I cannot see you from the depths of my despair.”

Obediently, Marius shuffled over to the mattress. Much to his chagrin, Courfeyrac was sprawled across it completely, without the smallest bit of space left. Wanting very much to go to sleep rather than have this conversation, Marius asked, “What’s happened to you?”

“Cruel, cruel rejection!” Courfeyrac said, covering his face in his hands and rolling to one side. Marius saw his chance and dropped down to the mattress, stretching out upon it. Perhaps he would be able to sleep after all, he thought, before Courfeyrac rolled again, almost on top of him, and embraced him.

“Rejected by whom?” said Marius, stiffly. One of his arms was extended and Courfeyrac had lay right on top of it.

“The fair mademoiselle I asked to attend the party with me. I was generous in my attentions, was as charming as can be, and  _still_ she would not dance. Why did she agree to attend if not to dance? I mean, perhaps if her partner were  _Combeferre or Prouvaire_  or someone else, it would be understandable– _prudent_ , even, not to dance. But I think I am a fair dancer. An  _excellent_ dancer!” He clung to Marius yet more tightly. “Instead of dancing, she insulted my waistcoat. I am still not recovered from the sting of those cold words!”

Marius did not know what to say to this, but raised the arm currently being crushed by his friend and patted him gently on the back. This, it seemed, appeased Courfeyrac enough for him to relax, laying his head on Marius’ shoulder. He was even silent for a few moments before raising his head again.

” _And_ she said my hair was ridiculous,“ Courfeyrac said. “You don’t think my hair is ridiculous, do you?”

Marius closed his eyes and chose not to answer. 


	36. A Summoning (G; Enjolras/Combeferre, Bahorel, Jean Prouvaire)

October 31, 1830

A thick fog was rolling through the Luxembourg Gardens one midday, echoing the overcast sky above it. A wind, unseasonably cold even for late October, rustled the thin, twig-like branches of every spindly, dark tree. The whole of Paris was decidedly unlike what it had been even just yesterday. The trees, so full of reds and golds previously were black, devoid of life. Not a bird chirped, not an insect hummed. The buildings seemed to stretch upwards, crooked, cast in ominous shadow. Not a single person could be found in the streets or on the garden paths, as if each of them sensed that something was not quite right. 

Enjolras and Combeferre, walking along arm in arm alone through the Luxembourg, were oblivious to all of this. What did it matter that the sky was darkening around them, that the ground crunched with quick-forming frost, that even the wind died down, rendering all around them silent? New romance was a sweet, odd thing. It shines a light on everything wonderful in the world, and hides from sight all else–for better or for worse. 

There was a grove of trees and twisted vines up ahead of them, which had certainly not been there before. In the back of his mind Combeferre registered this, but suddenly Enjolras was tugging him into it for a kiss, as he so often did these days, and Combeferre was only too happy to follow him.

Something,  _something_  was not right, however. As Enjolras leaned down to press his lips to Combeferre’s, their surroundings seemed to change. Previously so still, the world around them began to move. Combeferre opened his eyes, glanced over Enjolras’ shoulder, and what he saw made his blood run cold.

The vines around them were shifting, intertwining, growing and closing in like a cage around them. Combeferre could feel them slithering around him like so many snakes, wrapping around his ankles and trapping him. Too shocked to utter a sound, he clung to Enjolras even tighter. Enjolras, mistaking this for something rather different, continued his attentions with increased enthusiasm. 

Before Combeferre could say a word to warn him, they were both lifted off their feet and borne away at an alarmingly rapid pace, scratched and battered by the twigs and branches. For a moment, all was darkness, but then it ended, and Combeferre and Enjolras were deposited out of an entirely different grove of trees, landing hard onto the ground in a heap.

With no small amount of trepidation, Combeferre lifted his head to look around him. Though it could not have been past two in the afternoon, it was fully dark now, the clouds whirling overhead in the black sky. Breath hanging pale in the cold air, he turned to Enjolras, who had raised himself onto his elbows, eyes wide as he took in their surroundings.

They were in a small clearing, the crop of trees out of which they had fallen behind them, the cold earth below. Encircling them, deliberately placed there, were a double row of candles. Beyond, not quite out of the cast of flickering orange light, were gravestones, rising out of the darkness.

A chill ran down Combeferre’s spine, and he searched for Enjolras’ hand to press it. They were in Père Lachaise–though how, he could not have said.

“Do you hear that?” Enjolras said, his voice low in Combeferre’s ear. “Footsteps. Someone is walking toward us.”

Heart beating fast, Combeferre tried to peer through the dim light, but before he could catch sight of anything, a voice rang out from the darkness.

“ _Aha!_  Look, Jehan, it worked! Though it appears we have summoned the  _wrong_ revolutionaries.”

Enjolras and Combeferre sat up and looked in disbelief as Bahorel stepped into the light of the candles. Their friend was dressed in a long, dark hooded cloak, carrying a large black candle in one hand and a copy of the Social Contract in the other. He was followed by a similarly arrayed Jean Prouvaire. For a moment, Combeferre wondered if he had hit his head particularly hard while being transported here.

“Well, well. You two must have been standing very close together to  _both_  have been summoned here.” Bahorel raised his eyebrows, affecting a look of innocent curiosity. “What were you getting up to?”

Enjolras ignored the question and stood, looking much harassed. There were leaves in his hair. “What have you done?”

Jean Prouvaire beamed in a way that was quite at odds with their grim surroundings. “It is said that the veil between the living and the dead is particularly thin this time of year. We were just  _experimenting_  with calling to the other side, asking for those who have shaped our past, trying to gain insight for our work.” He nodded to Enjolras but Combeferre, still sitting on the ground, was the one who perked up. “You might join us! We have extra supplies. Courfeyrac recalled an engagement just before we began and ran off. Would you like to help?”

“ _No,_ ” said Enjolras flatly, just as Combeferre chimed in, “ _Experimenting_ , you say?”

Bahorel smirked as Enjolras looked down at Combeferre, askance.

“Well,” said Combeferre, trying to sound offhand. “Think of what we might witness–and discover! If the two of them succeeded in summoning us, what could all four of us do together? I-” He realized suddenly how quickly and earnestly he had been speaking, and took a breath. “It could be interesting.”

Enjolras’ brow furrowed. “Communing with the dead? Really?”

“What harm could a little curiosity cause?”

Enjolras stared at him, and then his gaze flicked to the unnaturally dark afternoon sky, the creaking trees, the frost-encrusted graves, and then back to Combeferre’s eager face looking up at him. He sighed, resigned. “Oh.  _All right then._ ”


	37. Yet Another Sickfic (T; Enjolras, Combeferre, Courfeyrac)

Sat shoulder to shoulder, ensconced in blankets on Courfeyrac’s bed, Enjolras and Combeferre watched their friend bustle around the room, making last minute preparations before he left them. With the pair out of commission with a bad, shared cold, Courfeyrac had volunteered to both look after them and take on their duties within the ABC. Presently he stood, hands on his hips, surveying them and trying to think of whether he had forgotten anything. If he looked a little harried and disheveled, if his hair was not curled quite as impeccably as it usually was, neither chose to point it out.

“I’m off to collect that sample of powder from the polytechniciens, then to deliver the news of our contacts in Lyon to the Cougourde. After that, I’ll run to the printer’s with our new article. Tonight, we’re all meeting at Corinthe. Combeferre, I will deliver word of your absence to your professors and collect your dissection notes from Joly. Is that everything?”

Enjolras and Combeferre both nodded mutely. Courfeyrac smiled.

“Good. You’ve both had a dose of laudanum to help your cough, and you are warm enough, I hope? If you need an extra blanket, help yourselves—they are in my trunk. I’ve also gotten you a pot of honey there-“ He nodded to the nightstand, on which stood the honey, along with glasses of water and a spoon. “Take a bit of that. My mother used to give it to us whenever we had sore throats as children. I daresay it made being ill a little easier. And  _do_ try to get some sleep.” There was something in the tone of this last statement that said,  _or else._

It was a testament to how ill Enjolras felt that he assented to all of this treatment without protest. Already, the laudanum was having some effect—instead of nodding again at Courfeyrac’s instructions, he seemed to be mesmerized by the sunlight playing over the ceiling. He stared fixedly at it, tilting to one side. For his part, Combeferre looked as though he was trying hard not to be sick.

“Euh, all right then. I’m off. My landlady should be up with some soup for you both in a few hours.”

Courfeyrac left. The moment the door shut behind him, Combeferre flung off the bedcovers and spat the laudanum he had been holding in his mouth into the half-dead houseplant on the window ledge. He then darted into the sitting room for his satchel.

“You habe deceibed your friend, Cobbeferre,” said Enjolras thickly, wobbling where he sat as he followed Combeferre’s movements.

“ _I don’d care,_ ” Combeferre said, dragging his satchel back into the bedroom and sitting heavily onto the floor. “I habe to transcribe by dotes.”

“Courfeyrac will scold you.” Enjolras tipped over into Combeferre’s vacated portion of the bed. From his position, he was nearly eye-level with the pot of honey. He stared at it for a moment before attempting to writhe towards it, caught in a tangle of bedclothes.

Meanwhile, Combeferre had pulled out his shorthand notes from class and a blank sheet of paper. “I don’t care if he will scold be,” he scoffed. “I habe thigs to do. I cannot just take laudanub and allow by head to fill with fog.”

In lieu of answering, Enjolras stretched out a shaking hand, dizzily trying to grab at the honey. He missed.

“Do you need helb?”

“Doh.” Enjolras made another swipe and this time managed to grasp his target. With a triumphant noise, he celebrated his victory by scooping out a heaping spoonful of honey and devouring it. Still sitting on the floor, Combeferre turned his back on him and began scribbling furiously on his paper.

“Courfeyrac, scold  _be!_ ” he continued, glowering. Colds did not generally agree with Combeferre’s disposition. “It is an empty thread! He does nod go to class. He does nod know about my responsibilidies!”

“Hmmph,” said Enjolras skeptically, around another mouthful of honey.

Still grumbling, Combeferre bent low over his notes again before footsteps were suddenly heard back up the stairs. He jumped in surprise as Courfeyrac swung open the door to the landing.

“I nearly forgot my-  _Combeferre!_ What on earth do you think you are doing?”

Combeferre sat up, somewhere between indignation and panic. “I was only-“

“No.” Courfeyrac stood in the doorway, arms crossed. “You truly are a terrible patient! Put those notes away and go to sleep—or I shall  _not_ give you your new ones from Joly.”

Red-cheeked and grimacing at his defeat, Combeferre pointedly ignored Enjolras’ honey-smeared smile as he slunk sheepishly back into bed.


End file.
